The book I never wrote

You were the book I never wrote and the stories I never told. Somehow you managed your way and slipping through my fingers you suddenly were someone. Before I even realised you were already there, standing still, but facing backwards. 

You were hidden but I could see you in between. 

Even though I had so many lines in mind I never seemed to find the right words to speak them out. 

And for the first time in a long time I got it together. The spare pages I managed to put in a pile. 

I looked back to the beginning and wondered how could have things changed so drastically.

But I no longer had ink to re-write it. 

Old photographs reminded me of how we felt back in the day, but that was all gone. It would be useless to deny that the warmth of your hands eased my agony and seemed to inspire in me a desire to grow stronger. But it would also be ridiculous to think that it was still the same. That things hadn't changed and that looks remained as they had been before. 

Life is made of cycles, and I had been pushing myself on purpose inside it, when it no longer had sense at all. It was time to focus on what was around me rather than regretting or wondering "what if..."

It seems to me that the story repeats itself even though there is nothing new to write about. Perhaps it was the end where we began or the beginning that never started, but all those spare pages and stories had faded away into the past, and there was no going back. 

V.